


The North Star

by EverythingisBlue



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Background Relationships, Family Drama, Friends to Lovers, Gen, Idk what i'm doing, Marriage, Minor Character Death, Other, Vague Medieval Knowledge, Very Very Divergent, What-If, Work In Progress, [shrugs], by vague i mean reenactor knowledge, disgruntled reenactor knowledge of the medieval period in central scotland is what i mean, or rather - influences, this is what i do instead of doing the things people want me to do, trying to merge TV and Book Universes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-14
Updated: 2017-04-10
Packaged: 2018-08-31 01:44:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8558347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EverythingisBlue/pseuds/EverythingisBlue
Summary: She never wanted to marry.She never wanted to be a lady.She never wanted to be a mother.She never wanted any of it, but it was the way things were in the world. In a world where the dragon made his keep with both the wolf and the viper, why wouldn't the stars fall for her?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> so i started thinking about what the world of ice and fire would look like if rhaegar had won at the trident and a bunch of different things happened, and then i started writing. and i didn't stop. and i can't stop. help me. (i'm so tired) i suppose the thing you need to know most is that the nobles started married at 18 instead of like, 12.  
> BUT ANYWAY, in this alternate universe Sansa has married Trystane Martell as part of a marriage pact arranged by Queens Lyanna Stark and Elia Martell, and Arya has to serve as bridesmaid.

Dorne baked under the summer sun. Arya’s skirts chafed as she sat at the high table, picking at her food. Despite the reception being placed out of doors, she felt as though she were trapped in an unbearably stuffy room. Arya glanced up from her plate, to the floor before her. Dancers spun around and among each other, their bright silks flickering like butterfly wings, glittering in the sunlight. Men and women whirled about each other gracefully, and the men held the women’s hands aloft in a dainty grasp. It seemed so odd - in the North, you’d grip your partner, squeeze their arm tight, and leap and laugh and spin until the ceiling spun with you. Upon thinking of the North, and its’ cold, Arya’s heart began to ache. She longed to feel the bite of winter.

A slap on her arm roused her from her stupor. Her head snapped to face her mother, who signalled to her to sit straight without a break in her inane smile. However, Arya knew it wasn’t all for show. Her mother’s beaming reached from ear to ear and into her shining eyes, all for Sansa and her wedding. The bride in question sat two places to Arya’s left, dressed in the Dornish fashion, between their father and her new husband. Beyond him were his father and mother, and Edric Dayne.

Heir of House Dayne of Starfall, the young man functioned as chief groomsman in much the same way Arya had been chief bridesmaid. Yet unlike Arya, he seemed to enjoy himself – he and Trystane joked often, sharing cheeky looks from across the table. Occasionally, he would glance to her and smile, and she would pull a funny face. Each time, he laughed.

After seven courses of tangy, spicy food that burned in her throat, the reception began to wind down. It ended with the bedding, an altogether more subdued affair than Arya’d expected – rather than the men of the wedding carry Sansa through the River Gardens and into the castle, the newlyweds rose and, led by their parents, walked hand in hand to their beds. Behind them walked Arya and Edric, loyal brides’ fellows to the end. As the procession entered, Arya stole one look at the setting sun. The once-cloudless blue sky was violet and studded with white stars, and a sliver of a moon rested among building, smoky clouds. A cool breeze glided along her skin. She smiled.

“It is beautiful, isn’t it?” Edric asked in hushed tones. Arya hummed in agreement, not quite taking her eyes off the sight. They continued inside. They meandered under ornate arches flanked by incredible carvings of strange beasts in alabaster stone, along wide corridors, to the door of Trystane’s chambers.

There they left the newly-weds and disbanded to their own chambers. Well, their parents retired - Arya remained, admiring the sprawling ivy carved into the door’s dark mahogany. Edric floated nearby, as if awaiting her.

“Should you not re-join your mother and father, my Lord?” She asked, head cocked.

“Oh, I-I shall, my Lady, I just… I wish to ask, do you ride, my Lady?”

“I do. And please, don’t call me that. Call me Arya.”

“Well, Arya, would you like to ride with me tomorrow morning? After breakfast?”

“Before. I can never ride on a full stomach.” In the back of her mind, she could hear her mother scold her for being so headstrong. But Edric simply smiled at her.

“I will be at your room at dawn. Good night, my- Arya.”

“Good night, Edric.”

 

The nights in Dorne never darkened like they did in the North. Instead, her ivory room was bathed in lilac light, softened by the moon, and she didn’t sleep. Not well at least - with the covers too soft and flouncy and the room too warm, Arya sat up, her legs curled up to her chest, watching the sky. Every so often, she drifted off, only to wake an hour or so later.

Arya half-heard the rap at the door, when the purple sky began to turn blue. She slipped out of bed and answered. There stood Edric, ready and dressed, his face turning pink upon the sight of her smallclothes.

“I’ll give you a moment,” he mumbled, as she closed the door. She chuckled - _what a little lamb_ , she thought. _And here, I thought the Dornish more accustomed to such a sight_.

She flung on a pair of trews, a tunic and an overcoat, tied off with a belt, then some boots. Her hair, she tied tight to the back of her head. With that, she opened the door again. Edric cocked a brow at the sight of her.

“Where were you keeping those?”

“In my trunk,” she answered. “I pack my things myself. Now, are you ready?”

“Uh, yes, yes. If you’ll follow me.”

“I will. You _are_ showing me the way to the stables, after all.”

Edric smirked, shaking his head. “I think you’ll be happy to know that I have a shortcut. A remainder from my days spent fostered here.”

The pair walked side by side from wide corridors into narrow ones, passing more and more servants as they went. Their quarters were plainer and devoid of carvings, yet Arya still marvelled at the high arches that followed everywhere she went.

“Why are they like that?”

“The Rhoynar believed that arches were a divine shape. When she crossed to Dorne and married the Martells, Nymeria requested that Sunspear be rebuilt with this in mind. My own home has the same.”

Arya nodded. “We’ve nothing like this in Winterfell.”

“How are you finding Dorne?”

“Hot.” They crossed a threshold and a courtyard, out towards the stables. “And dry, and orange… The nights are pretty.”

“They are,” Edric mused. The stables stood at the end of a long, winding row of workstations and huts, overlooking a vast expanse of dusty plains. By now, the sun has risen in full and cast its light over the sands ahead of them.

The horses, as she’d figured, were Dornish - thin, grey and speckled, and quite beautiful. The one closest to her whinnying, tossing back its’ long, sparkling mane. As she stroked its nose, she marvelled at how soft its coat was.

“Do you know their names?”

“Um, that one”-the one closest to her- “is Typhoon, and I believe this one is Hurricane.”

“What an odd name for a horse,” she said.

“Well, what would you call a horse?”

“I have one at home, a black one. I call her Raven.”

“Now that _is_ a strange name.” He lifted up two saddles from behind the stables, “Do you need me to saddle for you?”

“No, thank you, I can do it myself.” She took hers, and placed it upon Typhoon’s back. “Though I must say, I’ve never met anyone else that can.”

“I decided quite young that I needed to be self-sufficient,” he explained. “Although, I’m surprised a lady can.”

“I’m not a lady.”

“Yes, you are. You are the daughter of a lord and his lady, hence a lady.”

“But I am Arya first, before all that. My last name has nothing to do with what I want or who I am. Surely it’s the same for you - you’re Edric first, a Dayne second.”

“I’m an heir. That’s not how it works for me.”

Arya frowned. “Not with that attitude.”

She tightened the last strap and began to lead her mare out of its box. Once clear, she leapt atop the horse. It took to her quickly and she to it, smoothing her hands along its neck. She glanced over her shoulder to Edric, staring dumbstruck, mouth hung open.

“Are you coming?”

Edric shut his mouth. “I-uh, yes, of course.”

He mounted his horse, and the two trotted out of the front gate and onto the plains ahead. A little way out from the gates surrounding Sunspear, Arya turned to Edric. The corner of her mouth curled in a sly smile.

“Aren’t Dornish horses the fastest in Westeros?”

“Indeed.”

“Let’s see how true that is. _Yah_ _!_ ”

Arya sped off, losing Edric in a burst of dust. She laughed as she galloped along the sands. The wind whipped her hair about wildly. Her heart thundered like horse hooves, pumping adrenaline through her body. To be on horseback, racing through the land, was the most glorious feeling she’d ever known.

And this land, she realised as she rode, was Nymeria’s. It might not be the land of her birth, but she had won it, and Arya could see that. She could feel it. She could see Nymeria in the sun and sand. This was her land. And knowing this, Arya felt humbled.

She slowed to a canter, then a full stop, to wait for Edric. The sun began to burn on her neck. Eventually, he galloped towards her, wiping the sweat from his forehead. His cheeks were salmon pink.

“Why’d you stop?” He panted. “Lose heart?”

“Never, I was just… thinking.”

“Silver for your thoughts?”

“That’s a bit much.”

“Maybe they’re worth that much.” He said, decanting a flask from his hip. He took a swig, and then asked again. “What was it?”

“Nymeria.”

“What about her?”

“Well, I named my direwolf after her, and I have an interest in the warrior women of Westeros. Nymeria, Visenya and Rhaenys Targaryen, Danelle Lothston… Did you know that in Essos, there was once a kingdom ruled by its women?”

“The Sarnosi, yes?”

“Mm-hmm. Do you like history, Edric?”

“I do, though I can't say queens interest me-”

“Why not?”

“I know the history of the aristocracy; I don’t need to agonise over it. I want to learn about the smallfolk.”

“Oh.”

“Did you think I was going to say that women weren't worth learning about?”

“It’s what my brother once said,” she admitted. Robb was a good man - but it had taken quite a bit of wrangling to get there. “He’s still wrong, I know.”

“He is. We men often are, so my aunt Allyria says.”

She chuckled, “She sounds smart. I like her.”

“You would, I think. She and my father frequently disagree.”

“What about?”

“Oh, everything. At the moment, there’s the issue of my betrothal.”

“Oh.” She murmured, trying to remind herself how old Edric was. His name day fell… three years before hers, she told herself. So, he was near marriage age, if not there already. “Has anything been arranged for you?”

“Not yet. I want to oversee it myself, and my aunt supports this, but my father is old-fashioned. He wants to see me married soon, to a Fowler or a Yronwood. As soon as I reached my eighteenth name day, it was all he talked about, sending missives to the houses in the area.”

“Has anyone responded?”

“If they have, I won’t have it. I’d like to marry for love, not politics, but it’s easier said than done. What about you?”

“I… I’d rather not marry at all.”

“What does your lord father think?”

“He’s been so caught up in Sansa’s that he hasn’t thought about me,” she said, half-lying. It was true, he had spent a lot of time on Sansa’s wedding. But he had given thought to Arya - or he would have, if any of the local lords were interested. She _had_ flowered, but no offers were made.

“Nothing’s planned yet.”

“I’m sure there will be. You are beautiful, after all.” Arya laughed. How could he, a man who only yesterday sat in the presence of Sansa, say that about her, lumpy-faced, horse-faced Arya? “What? What’s so funny?”

“Nothing, nothing,” she said, trying to assuage her cackling. Edric smirked.

“Of course, I didn’t mean it. You’re beginning to get burnt on your face, you’re all red.”

“Oh, how cutting,” Arya shot back. She gripped the reins. “I’ll race you back.”

“See you there.” With that, he took off, leaving her in a cloud of red dust.

“Not fair!” She shouted after him, kicking her horse into action. She shot ahead, urging the horse forward, yet always seemed to be on his tail. Neither slowed down until they saw the back gates of Sunspear approaching, and Edric stopped at them first.

“You had a head start,” was the first thing Arya said upon catching him. Edric shrugged, grinning.

“Maybe you’re not used to the fastest horses in Westeros.”

“I would be, if you didn’t cheat.”

“I didn't, I just… had an advantage.”

Arya scoffed, saying nothing as the pair passed through Sunspear’s gate into the yard. Jumping off the horses, they led them both to the stables the way they’d come.

“I suppose I should escort you back to your Keep?” Edric asked, as they began to walk the grounds.

“If you must,” she retorted. “I don’t imagine I’d be welcome at breakfast dressed like this.”

“You’d be surprised, the Martells are very accepting.”

“Ah, but my mother is not, at least not in good company. At home she doesn’t mind, I think she’s given up.”

“Speaking of,” he said as they left the servant’s quarters, “When do you return to Winterfell?”

“Tomorrow, I believe.”

“Oh,” he said, unable to hide how crestfallen he looked.

“Will you write?” Arya found herself asking, as they approached her room.

“If you wish,” he said, smiling. “I best leave you to get dressed.”

“Yes, you better,” she joked, voice mocking his tone. He simply shook his head and turned on his heel, smirking all the while, then walked away.


	2. Chapter 2

Six moons had passed since the Starks returned to Winterfell. In that time, her mother had embroidered about a quarter of a tapestry, her father had overseen a petty dispute between Glover and Umber, and Arya had received a hundred letters from Edric Dayne.

They usually arrived at breakfast each day, or every second day, and she would send a response by dinner. In them, the pair discussed everything from history to politics, to differences between Dorne and Winterfell, to how well the other was doing. They wrote like two friends sat talking in the same room.

Edric told her about all his lessons, his preparations to become Lord of Starfall; and she wrote of each tedious embroidery lesson her mother put her through. Septas were a common grievance.

Within the last two weeks, sometime after her sixteenth nameday, the letters had stopped - without explanation. Arya tried to put it out of her mind, but sometimes it drifted into panic - what if he disliked her now? Was it something she wrote? What if he was ill, or worse?

It didn’t bear thinking about, she told herself again that morning, after another letter failed to show. To distract herself she went riding in the forests around Winterfell, returning to the stables muddied and wet. A bath was in order, after she’d fed Raven.

“Milady?” A maid asked suddenly. Arya looked up. “Your Lord father requests your presence in the Hall.”

“Do I need to change?” She asked, gesturing to her mud-stained tunic. The maid stammered.

“He didn’t say, milady.”

“Oh.” Arya drew her lips into a thin line. “I’ll be right there.”

She rushed along the corridors and down into the Hall. Her father sat in his chair, with a collection of lords and their ladies about him, some banner men lined up along the walls. Some of the peasants were there, having had their grievances settled. Her father liked to see them first.

No, the man he addressed now was a nobleman: tall, sandy-haired… his eyes were almost purple.

“Edric?” She asked aloud - to herself, but loud enough for others to hear. He turned to face her and smiled, and she couldn't help herself. She ran to embrace him, squeezing him in her arms. The lords and ladies muttered and giggled, but she didn’t care.

As she set herself back down, she looked him over, laughing at his manner of dress. He wrapped himself in furs like a Northerner. But he still shivered as he stood before her Lord father.

“How are you? What are you doing here?”

“I’m well,” he said, blushing. “Arya, I’ve, err-I’ve come for your-your hand in marriage. If you’ll have me, that is.”

She stepped back, taking it in. She turned to her father.

“I-I… Father, what do you have to say?”

“I leave it to you.” Among the titters and murmurs, Arya could only think, _Of course you do._ After all, men clamoured for Sansa. They were silent for her. At times, she wondered which was worse.

Yet in a way, she was thankful. Her future was her own. On paper, at least - she knew she was expected to marry well, and the weight of those expectations pressed down harder with each day. They squeezed her stomach leaden. She would rather cast them off like an ill-fitting cloak, but it became more apparent she couldn’t. At least… it could be much worse.

“Then I do, I-I accept your proposal.”

Edric beamed. He grasped her hand in his, pressed it to his lips. Her skin felt warmer all of a sudden. There was something in the way he looked at her, something that felt like the sun on her face.

“I shall give my all to be worthy of you. I swear it.”

“Ladies and gentlemen,” her father announced. “I propose a feast in honour of this occasion!”

The hall erupted into cheers, yet Arya found herself wanting to slip away. Preferably into hot, soapy water.

_By the Old Gods and the New, I need a bath._

 

She got her wish eventually- at her mother’s insistence. Catelyn seized her daughter almost as soon as Ned took Edric aside, and dragged her to their chambers. As the maids scrubbed Arya down, she fretted, pacing back and forth.

“How in seven hells do you manage to get so dirty on a horse?”

“Mother-”

“And to walk in like that, in front of everyone-”

“Mother.” Arya said sternly, trying to mask the strain of pleading in her voice. “Please, calm down.”

Catelyn relented, somewhat. She sighed, sat behind Arya’s head, and began to massage soap into her hair.

“I’m just surprised, is all. He could've had the decency to write ahead.”

She shook suds from her fingers and reached for a nearby jug of water. Taking the lengths in her hand, she washed the soap out gradually, working her way to the scalp.

“He didn’t even tell me.”

“Did he not?” She asked, setting the jug down. “I was under the impression this was a love match.”

“It… may be.”

Catelyn’s hands stopped. They moved to her shoulders, softly pressed to her skin.

“It will be, in time. You’ve a handsome suitor, you’re fond of him, love will come quickly for you both.”

She bit her lip. “What if I’m not ready?”

“You will be. You have two years yet to prepare yourself.”

“And what if I’m not ready by then?”

“Arya, you will be. A mother knows these things. Now get up, dear, we need to dry you down.”

She did as she was told, and was borne into soft sheets with which to dry herself. Once dry, she slipped two sets of white linen under-dresses on. Her mother’s ladies lead her to the bedroom, where they had assembled piles of dresses for her to choose from. In their stacks, they all looked the same to her. While she deliberated, a maid took to braiding her hair, another to applying sweet oils to her wrists and legs.

“Err, the blue one?” She said eventually, to a long, slender dress at the bottom of a pile. She was laced into it by three ladies and her mother, who yanked at its strings. Something about her hips - or lack thereof - was muttered.

Lastly, a maid slipped a silver locket around her neck, with a wolf embossed onto its front.

“One last thing,” her mother said, plucking a winter rose from a vase. She slipped it in among the braids. “Perfect.”

Arya rose and turned to the mirror. Upon seeing herself, her stomach turned. Her reflection was uncanny; free of dirt, of blemish, her hair neat and tucked away. She hadn't worn a dress since Dorne. It was her, but it wasn't. It was more her aunt Lyanna - before the failed rebellion. When she had nearly bled to death having Jon. An uneasy dread crept up her spine.

She didn’t have time to think on it, however, for the sound of musicians tuning travelled up from the Hall to the Keep. It signalled that they were expected.

Arya was led downstairs in a procession of ladies, hoping they’d shroud her. But as they entered the room, all eyes turned to her.

The feast was large, by Winterfell standards, despite the suddenness of it. Tables were decked and not a place went empty - and almost all the noble houses assembled, as if by magic. _Or_ , Arya told herself, _as if they knew already_. Platters upon platters of dishes lay on each table, steaming and hot. Arya felt her mouth water at the sight of them, not least at the smell of rabbit stew from across the Hall.

She was led to the high table, to sit beside Edric at the centre seats. The moment she sat down, the room went silent and stared. Maybe they were all thinking of a thing to say. Arya Stark, she-wolf of Winterfell, trussed up in ladies’ clothes and betrothed to a Lord. A Dornish lord. It rang like a punchline to a cruel joke.

Edric’s hand found hers under the table, and squeezed.

“You look so beautiful,” he whispered. “Are you alright?”

She nodded, glancing at him. Perhaps it was a consequence of such a tight dress, but she struggled to breathe.

“Are you?”

“Oh yes, quite. This is so different to Starfall, it’s fascinating.”

“Lovely,” she said, smiling stiffly. She reached for her drink and knocked it back. Sweet mead ran down her throat, dulling some of her senses.

“More mead, milady?” A passing serving boy asked.

“Seven hells, yes,” she said, thrusting the cup into his waiting hand. As she took a drink, her father stood, grinning. Her heart sunk.

“Before we eat, a dance!”

 _Oh, seven hells_ , Arya thought, the music suddenly picking up. Edric got to his feet.

“Would you like to join me?”

In all honesty, she didn’t even want to be there. But who cared about that?

“Yes, certainly.” She took his hand and rose, being led onto the floor before them.

“I’ve been researching how to dance like a Northerner,” he told her eagerly. “I think you’ll be impressed.”

The couple stood closest to the table were lead couple, and Robb’s wife Jeyne stood beside to Arya. Beyond her was a row of Mormonts and Umbers, Karstarks and Glovers, of all ages, shapes, and abilities.

“Smile,” Jeyne whispered softly. Her eyes shone, lit by the radiance of newly being with child. “You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”

Arya did as she said, forcing a smile to stretch the corners of her mouth. Her lips ached. What was that thing Sansa used to say? About a lady’s courtesy being the only armour she’d ever need? It was easy for her to say: she doled out ladies’ courtesies like sweets and got them back in return. There was no need to smith armour from them.

Arya, on the other hand, would rather be in full plate than where she was.

The fiddle began to play its erratic beginning riff, joined by the drums and the clapping of hands. Feet thumped out the rhythm so hard the floor shook.

As top couple, Arya and Edric danced first. They stepped toward each other, linking arms and spinning for eight steps - she could hear him count each one and feel the measured, cautious way he moved. Edric moved with the twirls and flounces of a Dornish dancer, not the assured swagger of a Northern lad. His pace almost lulled Arya into relaxing. But then the dance moved on, and Robb spun her around as though she were a ragdoll. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched Edric dance. He stepped toward Jeyne full of grace, linking his arms with hers with much care; _care for the child, naturally_ , she thought.

The pair met in the centre and spun again before moving on again, and so it went again and again. Edric offered himself to each lady, whereas the men grabbed Arya, laughing. Any other day she would laugh too, with her head flung back and the sky spinning before her eyes. But moving between a gentle pool and a raging stream made her seasick. That was to say, that her feet ached, the muscles in her arms had been pulled to their breaking point, and everything - the ceiling, the room, the crowds, her stomach, her head - spun. Her feet fell over each other in trying to gain footing, and she landed against a table. Her hands smacked against the hardwood. Her palms smarted. She tried to stand, her thighs unable to hold her up. Voices rang in her ears over a dull, distant thudding.

“Arya!” Edric gasped, running toward her. He lifted her onto her feet and she leant upon him, her arms in his. “Are you alright?”

“I’m alright,” she panted. “I-I just haven’t danced for a while, I’m all out of sorts.”

“Shall we get some air?”

She nodded. He led toward the door, muttering ‘excuse me’ like a litany to a crowd that fluctuated, that murmured and whispered and gossiped.

“Always such a fuss with that one,” a nearby lady simpered. Arya’s ears burned.

As they walked from the hall, he said, “You’ll have to show me the way.”

“Down here,” she replied, and they turned down a corridor, then another, and into the courtyard. The cold air bit at her face and made her skin tingle. It burned in her throat the moment she breathed in, but in a good way. She felt purer, and better for it.

She leant back on the stone of the castle walls, taking deep breaths, clearing her head. It was then she at last felt her limbs shaking. She looked up to see multiple Edrics become one, that stared intently at her.

“Are you sure you're alright?” he asked, “You’re so pale.”

“I’m a Northerner, we don't get much sun.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Edric, I’m fine,” she lied.

“No, you're not,” he said. “Tell me.”

 _Well, you asked_ , a voice in her head snapped. It was about ready to open her mouth and spill all the feelings she had tried to swallow back that evening, but something stopped it. She hardly knew what nor could she explain it. Nothing usually stopped her mouth.

But when she thought about it, about opening up to her _intended_ \- _her future husband_ \- all argument went silent. She couldn’t inflict her words upon him. And her gut instinct rebelled against the silence, pushing for her to speak, and leaving Arya a battleground for the two forces to face each other on. Her head began to hurt all over again.

“Milady?” A maid asked, stepping into the dark. “Milady, are you quite alright?”

“I am, thank you.”

“Milady, your Lord father is wondering whether to proceed with the feast or wait for you to finish your dance. What shall I tell him?”

The pair were silent for a moment before Edric spoke.

“We best get back inside,” he said, arms closing in around her.

“No,” she said. He coiled back from her. “We’ll be with you all in a moment. I just need to have a word with Lord Dayne.”

“Of course,” the maid said, bowing her head as she walked away. Edric squinted at her.

“A word?”

“Edric,” she began. “Do you remember the day we went riding?”

“Of course I do.”

“Do you remember what I said, about being my own person?”

“I do,” he said. His brow furrowed, he stared at her, that same pointed squinting from earlier. “Do you think I’m going against that?”

“I-in truth, I do, somewhat.” The floodgates open, it came pouring out. “I don’t feel like my own person; I don’t feel like myself in this dress or with my hair this way or… Or any of it! I’m not myself!”

Edric sighed, looking toward his feet. “What should I do?”

“You should have waited those two years,” she grumbled. “Or better yet you should’ve warned me.”

“But I didn’t want to wait. What if some great big strapping Northern lad got there first?”

“So what? You aren't entitled to me.”

“That… was not what I meant. I meant-”

“I can tell what you mean. You don't care about me; you just want to possess me. You’re an heir, you need a lady, and here I am.”

He faltered before he spoke. “Yes, I admit it: my father wants to see me married and Starfall needs a lady, but I-I love you. I love you, Arya Stark. If not love then, I feel so strongly, so greatly, my heart is fit to burst.”

She bit her lip. What could she possibly say to that? And by the way he looked at her, all hope and agony, he needed her to answer him.

“I can’t say the same, I’m sorry, but… I’d be glad to grow old with you.” Taking his hands in hers, she smiled, “You’re not a Frey, after all.”

He laughed, “Would that really be so bad?”

“They’re such odd people.” The two smiled at each other. “Shall we go back inside?”

“I’d-um-I’d like to give you something first, just something before we marry.” He reached into a pouch dangling from his belt, and pulled out a ring. A pearl sat, embedded in a burst of tiny amethysts and diamonds, upon a silver band. “It’s my mother’s ring. Before she passed, she gave it to me to give to my intended. May I place it on you?”

She nodded, and he took her right hand in his and slipped it upon her finger. She couldn't help but feel amazed at the way it glittered in the moonlight.

“Thank you.” She said breathlessly. “Truly. I won’t ever take it off.”

“That means… that means much to me, thank you.”

“I’ve nothing to give you…” she said, trailing off as her thoughts caught up with her voice. Of course she did, something he wanted very much. This she knew, because a little voice within her wanted it too.

She reached up on her tiptoes and kissed his cheek. His skin burned beneath her lips, in spite of the cold. When she looked upon his face, his cheeks bloomed a bright pink, and she bit back a giggle.

“To your liking?” She asked. He only managed a nod. “I wonder how you’d react if I actually kissed you.”

“You could find out.”

Laughing, she said, “Not yet. Now come on.”

She grasped his hand and led him back inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i can't remember the name of the dance that this one is based on, but it /is/ a scottish folk dance. i know this because at this point, it's indelibly stamped into my muscle memory.


	3. Chapter 3

For the next year and a half, life progressed as normal. The North continued. Her father saw to the nobles and the smallfolk, Jeyne had her babe and named her Lyarra, and Arya persisted. Hoping to live life as she once had, she soon discovered this was easier said than done. Every time she received a letter from Edric, it came with a small gift - usually jewellery, star-shaped and set with amethysts and diamonds. As beautiful as they were, they made it harder to see him as a friend, no matter how she tried. She wore his ring to remind herself of him, but Edric became a stranger again – a husband, a lord – _her_ lord – the Heir to Starfall.

And she became the future Lady of Starfall, even without yet being married, with all a lady’s commitments. Gone was her fun, her archery practice, her sword and shield, and her usual morning ride was put aside for visitors, full of congratulations. _As if it were an achievement_.

First, there was her cousin Jon, and his wildling wife Ygritte, and their daughter Myra. None of them seemed to know how to take it, Jon telling her that he never imagined she would marry. Ygritte wondered - often and loudly - why she’d pick a Southron lord, until Jon pointed out she had done the same. Myra, a freckly five-year-old, simply enjoyed riding Raven with ‘auntie’ Arya. She didn’t want her to go, she said in a toothy lisp.

Then came the fathers of all eligible young women in the area, asking for their daughters to be sent as maids for Arya upon her leaving. When Sansa had left, she had taken Jeyne Poole, Eleyne Westerling, and Wylla Manderly. Unlike her, Arya had few friends, fewer whom she would consider bringing with her. If she could have Nymeria serve her, she would. Yet the choice still forced itself upon her. If she did not choose a Mormont sister, or tiny Eddara Tallhart, or one of the Umber daughters, it seemed Arya was destined to have a Frey as her companion.

Last, around a month before she was due to leave, came her aunt Lyanna. She was the visit everyone prepared for: the corridors had been swept day in and day out, the rooms cleaned, livestock slaughtered, fresh vegetables and fruits prepared; there wasn't a day went by in the week beforehand that was uneventful.

When she arrived, Lyanna rushed into the Hall where they awaited her. She beamed at the sight of them, embracing each Stark in turn. She made small talk with Catelyn and Jeyne, cooed at Rickard and Lyarra, and tussled Bran and Rickon’s hair. But when she came to her, she pulled Arya into a tight embrace. Arya wished to stay there, head buried in the soft fur of her aunt’s cloak. Lyanna untangled her arms and leant back, looking Arya in the eye.

“You and I have much to discuss, little wolf,” she said, cupping her face in her hands briefly. She then stood and turned to Eddard. “I believe I need some time alone with my favourite niece. Do you allow it?”

“I couldn't stop either of you, even if I wanted to.”

“True,” Lyanna said, smiling. She glanced to Arya. “Shall we ride, Arya?”

She beamed, “Absolutely.”

 

The moment the cool, crisp air of the North hit Arya’s face, she was home. Truly home. She would live on horseback, like a Dothraki horse lord. She would take who she pleased, ride wherever she wanted… She would be herself.

Mid-ride, the sky opened up and forced Arya and her aunt under the cover of the forest canopy. The rain pounded the green leaves above them, its’ relentless patter echoing through the trees. Arya stood close to the edge of the forest. Her hands out, she caught the rain upon her fingers, felt its spray on her face. She could smell the rain mingling with the dirt. And her heavy heart felt feather-light.

“I’ve missed this,” she said, in so soft a voice her aunt barely heard her. Barely.

“Have you not been out recently?”

“I haven’t been able to,” she admitted. “I typically ride before breakfast and miss it all together, but I am expected there now in order to receive guests. And these guests will take from morning until sundown, at which point I can’t go out anymore. On top of that I am to have new dresses made, and to learn proper etiquette, and to do ladies’ things.”

“Ah. I suppose then, that talk of your engagement would go unappreciated?” Arya groaned. With a sympathetic smile, her aunt continued. “I must say, Queen Elia is very pleased with the arrangement. The Daynes and the Martells have always been close, and now the Starks will be too.”

“Sansa’s at Sunspear, having their heirs, being their lady.” As she rambled, she traipsed through the forest floor in circles. “The Starks are already close to Dorne. There’s no need for another match between the North and Dorne.”

Lyanna nodded, humming. “If you hate it so much, why wear his ring?”

Arya stopped. Her hands found one another. She twirled the band upon her finger lightly, careful not to break it.

“No piece of Stark jewellery shines like that,” she added.

“I-I can’t bring myself to take it off. Sometimes I forget it’s there. Edric said it was his late mother’s, I… I can’t.”

“You love him.” She left no room for argument in her tone. “He certainly loves you, as far as I can tell. This isn’t a political match - to give a girl your mother’s ring is no simple task.”

“I know,” Arya mumbled.

“Do you love him?”

“If I must-”

“I didn’t ask whether you must. I asked if you do.”

Arya stuttered, unable to find her voice, to give her aunt the truth. The thought of lying to her made Arya ill. “Not quite. Not yet. But I want to.”

“Oh, little wolf,” Lyanna sighed, throwing her arms around her. “It’s alright.”

Arya gulped. “Aunt Lyanna, is it… Is it stupid, to be afraid of your wedding day?”

“No, it isn’t. I was scared for mine, your mother was scared for hers, Sansa hers… well, maybe not her, but it isn’t without merit. A wedding is significant, it is the joining of two families, the end of your childhood… I can’t imagine who wouldn’t be scared to suddenly be grown, and have to share your grown life with another person. But your other person, Arya, is a good man. You are safe with him. But if you’re ever not, just remember: you are wolf blooded. You can survive anything.

“In the meantime, choose your ladies - a Mormont, and the Tallhart girl - and go riding. Or practice your sword fighting, or read histories - whatever you do, do what _you_ want. You may become a lady, but you still need time to be yourself.” Lyanna cupped Arya’s cheek in her hand, “I will always be there for you. I love Sansa, but you have always been my favourite niece.”

“Thank you, Aunt Lyanna.”

“Think nothing of it, little wolf,” she said. She looked around her. “I think we should get out of this rain, lest you catch a cold.”

They mounted their horses and rode back. Later, at dinner that night, Arya sat between her father and her aunt. After their second course, she turned to him, and asked:

“Father, would you send a letter to Lord Tallhart and Lady Mormont for me?”

Ned sat open mouthed for a moment, before responding. “Certainly.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i just realised there are like, two extra stories - those of lyanna and of ygritte - that need telling in this 'universe' for some things to make sense but tbh that's. that's 2017 me's problem.


	4. Chapter 4

She only noticed the week of her leaving when she awoke one morn to the maids packing her trunks, without consulting her. She put it from her mind and dressed for a morning ride, getting so far as to the stables before her mother found her and pulled her aside.

“Have you forgotten today, my dear?” She asked, curtly. Arya panicked.

“No,” she lied, and her mother smirked. “But say that I had, what would I be forgetting?”

“The arrival of Lady Mormont and her daughters.”

“Ah,” she muttered, chewing her lip. “I best change my clothes, right?”

“You better. Would you like to accompany me back to your chambers?”

Arya forced herself to smile. “Of course.”

Her mother took her by the arm, with a grip that surprised Arya in its ferocity, and lead her back to her chambers. The moment they entered, the maids dropped their tasks and assembled in a row against the wall facing them.

“Girls, please leave us,” Catelyn told them. “I wish to spend this morning with my daughter.”

They did as she said, leaving Arya only with her mother. Catelyn looked her daughter over and sighed. Whatever levity she’d attempted thus far vanished.

“Barely a few days left, and you continue this?” She asked, gesturing at Arya’s attire. “You’re almost a woman, Arya, and a wife – you cannot go on like this.”

Arya pursed her lips. There was no point in replying, no point in unpacking those old arguments like so much dirty laundry, and so Arya flopped back onto the bed, arms splayed at her sides. Catelyn grumbled. Arya waited for her mother to throw words at her, but instead she pulled a midnight blue dress from the top of a trunk and flung it at the bed.

“Put it on,” she commanded. “I know you can dress yourself.”

Bolting upright in a sitting position, Arya held her mother’s firm glare, attempting to search for an explanation, a crack in her façade. She found none, and resigned herself to dressing. She neglected to tell her mother that dressing herself extended to men’s clothing she had stolen from her brother. With the dress on, sleeves awkwardly twisted around her arms and layers ruched and tucked at her hips, Catelyn tutted. She approached her daughter and yanked at her hems, her sleeves, her hair, until she finished with a satisfied hum. She turned Arya to the mirror, and Arya felt her stomach sink. What stared back at her was a lady. A wife. And in a dress which looked like it had once belonged to Sansa, and her hair braided as Sansa once had it braided, her mother made it clear what kind of lady Arya had to be.

“There,” Catelyn said, hands upon Arya’s shoulders, “Is that not better?”

Arya bit her lip. 

“Well?”

“Mother, must I? Must I do this?”

Catelyn scoffed. “What are you afraid of, Arya? So many young ladies of your standing would long to make such a match – a match for love, with a rich house and advantages – and yet you seem to want to wheedle your way into the saddle! Why, in the Seven Kingdoms, are you afraid?”

“What if I can’t do it?” She asked, spinning on her heel and facing her mother. “I barely know him! What if I cannot love him?”

She had tried to, reading his letters in the evening, remembering his smile and his eyes. But all she could see was a stranger. Catelyn’s hands moved from Arya’s shoulders to her cheeks, softly cupping her jaw, thumbs stroking her skin. Arya softened and relaxed into her mouth’s touch, calmed by the motion. But then her mother spoke, and Arya nearly stepped back in shock.

“Oh, my sweet summer child, you do not need to love him. Even I, I did not know or love your father before we married. Love grows, Arya. It will come.”

Arya sat back down on the bed, hands tucked into her lap, turning those words over her head. As they spun, she twisted his ring around her finger.

“But-”

“Do you think your aunt Lyanna loved Rhaegar when they first married? That the Tyrell girl loved the Crown Prince, or that her brother loved his sister?”

“But Rhaenys and Willas have four children, Margaery and Aegon three. They must all love each other, surely?”

“Your brother and his wife love each other and only have two. My dear, what you see is duty, and love is not needed for such a thing. Margaery and Rhaenys and countless other girls are doing their duty.” Catelyn clasped her palms together and sat beside her daughter. “And I feel I have been remiss in telling you to do yours.”

She cleared her throat and Arya felt herself pale. She wanted to lie, to say that there was no need to speak, but the awkwardness of the moment stunned her into silence. Her skin squirmed over her bones. Assuming a rehearsed tone, one laced with attempts at authority, her mother continued.

“Arya, you are old enough now to know how men and women… interact with each other. But perhaps you don’t know that-”

“A lady has her lord’s heirs,” Arya blurted, the phrase tripping out the moment she thought of it. Her mother’s open mouth closed with a snap of her teeth. “At Sansa’s wedding, I… realised what bedding is. And the stable boys, they have such… foul mouths.”

Catelyn scowled, and Arya added, to close the lie, “But I fail to see how I do my duty that way.”

“Ah, yes. Well. I admit, I am not sure of how to tell you this but… your duty began before you were born. When we lost the war.”

Arya knew the story well enough: Lyanna ran off with Rhaegar, and Robert thought her kidnapped. For that, thousands of men died – thousands of Northern men. With them went the North’s pride, its swords, and its wealth.

“What saved us from a Targaryen wrath,” her mother explained, “was Lyanna.”

Arya blinked. This, she knew not. All her life, she thought distance was what separated the dragon from the wolf. Distance and the cold, for what dragon could survive winter?

“Your aunt saw that we would be protected. The king’s love for her opened his mind and spared your father from execution, and has guarded us since, even during the Short Winter – on the condition that we obey. We toil our fields as loyal subjects do. And we ladies, we marry well and bear children, even if that means going abroad.”

The Winter saw to that. When it came, she was nine and though it showed signs of lifting in the past year, its effects would last much longer. She remembered the way the North came together, out of necessity rather than feeling. The poorer houses needed feeding and the richer ones could just about do that. The grumble of an empty stomach rattled through her head. Her father and mother used to murmur in the corridors, where they thought themselves unheard, about ‘the seeds of insurrection’ growing in the region. Clearly, they worried for nothing. Rebellion could never amount to anything under a dragon’s claw. Without the manpower to lift swords and mount steeds, all the North had was daughters and infants.

But daughters could be traded, for good crops or security or fealty, or any of the million reasons the North sold its’ children. Like it sold Sansa. Like they were selling her.

Well, she wasn’t being sold, not in the same way. But with more mouths to feed in Winterfell, she felt the weight of her burden more and more. She could hunt to bring in more food, or she could build – if they let her. If it were proper, she could do anything. But it was not, and this was all she was allowed.

“There is a Stark queen on the throne and, no matter how you look at it, we are safe for that,” Catelyn concluded. “But that may not last forever. The power that protects us is fleeting, my dear.”

“And we must do our best to preserve it,” she responded, her voice flat, earning a smile that sickened her. “I must do well.”

“Yes, my dear. If you are a good wife and mother, House Dayne will recognise the Starks as allies.”

Arya felt as though a snowstorm had ripped through her. In her heart, she knew a North ravaged by a harsh winter and suppressed by an even harsher king. A land once proud, too proud, forced into doing what it must. The fact that she had to marry to protect it? It made her soul ache. It ached to know her love was a commodity, the only thing keeping her home from a Targaryen rage, keeping her family from starving in the cold.

The bell in the courtyard rang, each peel striking about her ears. Catelyn got to her feet at once, declaring it to be the Mormonts, but Arya could not rise. She felt frozen in place.

Oblivious, her mother turned to her and asked, “Are you ready?”

“I need a moment to collect my thoughts,” she replied, voice quiet. “I shall join you soon, though, I can't imagine it will take too long.”

“Of course.” With that, she left, and Arya sank back onto the bed like stone. She turned her head to the window, her only hope of escaping, and sighed. In this dress, she would crash to the ground in a heap of fabric – maybe the blow would be cushioned, maybe it wouldn’t. Tumbling out of her thoughts, she rose with a start and bolted toward the door. She could do this. She had to.

**Author's Note:**

> if you liked this, comments and kudos are always appreciated!


End file.
